Getting to Know the Reaper
by Maverick Point
Summary: Four cops have the grave misfortune of encounting Liberty City's most wanted.


Peter Warrington III was a Liberty City cop, a rookie cop, but a cop nonetheless. He began work at the young age of twenty-two, straight out of college. He was placed at the 15th precinct on Portland Island. A golden boy by nature, he had been rising fairly quickly in the ranks by the time he was killed in the street outside the State Clock Tower on the west side of the district. No one saw the face of his killer, but everyone had a pretty good idea of who it was. The Reaper was a gang-runner for money, given his nickname for the way he seemed to stand at the gates of Hell all the time. He was a man with a ferocious outlook and a brutal way of execution. He worked for anyone who could pay him, and he never asked question. He would do any job for the right price, which meant he often acted as a double agent. He was an efficient marksman, and he had an entire arsenal at his fingertips. He was untouchable. He was a well-known cop- killer and assassin on the streets. No one asked questions because they knew he would never answer them. No one knew his name, only how to contact him. He was like a ghost, slipping in and out of shadows like a second nature. That's how he was able to murder Officer Peter Warrington III and then disappear without a sound, but that wasn't his only resource. There had been no one left alive to tell on him.  
  
EARLIER.  
  
"Hey Pete, you coming?" Benjamin Joseph Henry appeared in the doorway, stopping in midst ride when he saw the figure working feverishly behind the desk near the back of the room. He stood straight and shook his head in slight annoyance. It's time to close up shop and let the nightshift take a stab in the dark. Don't you want to go home and relax or something," he asked.  
  
Peter glanced up for a brief moment before returning his gaze to the work splayed out in front of him. "No. Really, sir. I have nothing better to do than sit right here and finish this report," he replied. It was true. He didn't have any family, and he wasn't into the new age generation that depended on television. All he really had to do at his apartment was feed his fish, and he had already done that on his lunch break.  
  
Ben walked into the room, removing his uniform hat. "What are you reporting on? You know, Petey, if you keep all this work up, not only are you going to be gray by the time you're twenty-five, but you're also going to starting making the rest of us boys look mighty lazy."  
  
"I'm sorry, sir," Peter said with a smirk. "I promise I'll become an average officer who procrastinates to the very last possible second as soon as I come down from this high I'm on from being placed here."  
  
"Oh," said Ben, perching himself on the edge of the desk in front of the younger officer. "So, that's your problem, eh? Well kid, what about this station is there to get high off of besides the smell of coffee in the morning?"  
  
Peter ceased writing and appeared to think about the question long and hard. "Well," he conceded at last, "it's better than the other stations in many respects. I mean, Staunton Island has nothing good on its record, and I don't want to have to drive all the way to Shoreside Vale just to get to work. That's quite a distance from where I live, and I figure it would be a waste of gas. Besides, Portland has the best reputation, and with you here, sir, I can see why."  
  
Ben laughed heartily. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my boy," he managed to say around his amusement. He calmed himself and took in and released a deep breath. "So, what are you composing over there so diligently on this fine, dark night?"  
  
"I've been researching this guy 'the Reaper'," Peter told him. "I want to know more about him, and do you know about the disarray of the computer files? I went in there to search for one simple thing, and I felt like I should have been wearing a safari hat and chopping through vines with a curved sword."  
  
"You'd look terrible in a safari hat," Ben decided out loud.  
  
"No," Peter said with a laugh. "I'm serious. It was a real mess."  
  
"I know it is believe me. If you want to have some genuine fun, you should try going to the name index and searching for 'Smith'. It crashes the entire system. Anyway, why the interest in the Reaper?"  
  
"Well, I don't know. I found out that he's killed, what, six officers from this precinct alone? I just wanted to know more about him. That's all. You know, to be more educated," Peter said, going back to what he was writing. He always hand-wrote things because computers seemed to hate him with all their little megabytes. That was just fine with him because he hated those infernal machines with a passion, so the feeling of general hatred was comfortably mutual.  
  
Something what could have been sorrow flickered across Ben's face. Peter didn't see it, and for that, Ben was grateful. He quickly masked the emotion. "Educated huh. That's not something that I would ever want to learn all about. The subject would make me paranoid."  
  
"I don't scare easily," Peter replied absently.  
  
Ben almost cringed. Scaring easily didn't have anything to do with it. The Reaper wasn't out to scare people. He was out to get his money. He was doing his job, and he didn't care who he affected. Ben suddenly felt bitter spite toward the rookie in front of him. Who was he to be so casual about such a murderer? He'd sure as hell be scared out of his wits come the time he would be staring down the black barrel of the killer's gun. Ben gad been there, and it was nothing to be casual about. He didn't comment on that though. Instead he said, "Good for you, rookie." Well, it was good to be confident, wasn't it? But then again, maybe it wasn't. Maybe overconfidence would get poor Petey killed. Oh dear.  
  
"So nobody knows who this fellow is," Peter asked, glancing from his paper to the open manila folder that was teetering on the edge of the desk. A few pictures of shadowed figures fluttered to the floor.  
  
"Nobody except God, the Chorus of Angels, and the Board of Saints," Nicholas Komolo's voice boomed from the other side of the room. Both Ben and Peter started, and Ben spun around. Nic was a night shift officer who absolutely adored his job, and Liberty City. Busting crime was his life. He strode into the room, running his hand along the plastic visor of his police cap. He was somewhat of the station's the Reaper expert; he's been face to gun barrel with the guy three times already. Strange how he had managed to survive. Peter brightened as Nic approached the desk Ben was sitting on.  
  
"Seems like the man materialized out of nowhere. We do know that he was one of four convicts who escaped in the convoy explosion on the Portland Bridge a while back, but those transfer records were a dead end seeing as though they were mysteriously eradicated by the Colombian Cartel," Ben offered.  
  
"Yeah, I read that," Peter responded thoughtfully. "Do you think the Cartel was covering for him?"  
  
"Seems likely," Nic told him, "but I get the feeling he doesn't really care for the Cartel very much."  
  
"How on Earth do you get that feeling," asked Ben.  
  
"From what little records we have, we know he has never worked with the Colombians, and he seems to be targeting them more than anyone else. I mean, just look at all the Colombian fatalities we have already," Nic replied, somewhat defensively.  
  
"He does what he's paid to do. He kills who he's paid to kill," Ben said. "I don't believe he actually cares as long as he get his money." But even as he said it, Nic's words rang true to him. The Reaper had displayed particular malice toward the Cartel. There was no denying that.  
  
"Does he target cops," Peter asked.  
  
"When the money's right," Nic replied.  
  
"So he's not just a random cop-killer, correct?"  
  
"You got it, kid," Ben pitched in. "He doesn't discriminate. He kills everyone on equal ground." He smiled extremely bitterly and gestured limply with one hand. It wasn't hard to see his outrage at the prospect at some maniac who simply enjoyed the sight of blood. He was clearly unhappy.  
  
"Yep, he---"  
  
Nic was cut off by a volley of static and a frantic, screeching voice over the radios connected to each of the officers' left shoulder. "Calling all units! We have a situation at the State Tower! Requesting immediate assistance! We need every source of backup that we can possible pull in. I repeat, all units to the State Tower! Now! There's no time!"  
  
The officers exchanged glances. The voice over the dispatch had sounded downright panicked. What could be going on at the State Tower that would require every cop in Liberty City? Common criminals in all three districts would have a field day with all the law enforcement tied up in one area.  
  
"We'd better go," Ben said, standing up. "And I was supposed to be at home on my couch watching the Tonight Show by now. Thanks a lot for distracting me Petey," he said sarcastically.  
  
"Hey, you stopped all by yourself. Excuse me if I observe the fact that you interrupted me and called me an overachiever in so many words," Peter retaliated in his own defense as he stood up.  
  
"You are an overachiever," Nic informed him solidly.  
  
"And what's your point?"  
  
"Petey is writing a report on your man Mister Reaper," Ben told Nic with a slight smile as the three men exited the office and began the short trek down to the garage under the building.  
  
"He's not my man, Benji. I don't know where you got a crazy idea like that. I hate that guy with every fiber of my being, and I don't often say such a thing about people. Usually I say it about cats. Man, I hate cats, with all that hair, and those claws," Nic said with an involuntary shudder.  
  
"I have a cat," Ben offered. "His name is Sketches."  
  
They reached the ground floor, and six eyes surveyed the garage, which was nearly empty except for two or three cars that still remained in their designated parking areas. "There's no logic in taking two cars," Ben said.  
  
"Your car or mine," Nic asked. He knew that Peter had not been assigned a car, for he was still very much new to police work. His partner took care of all the vehicle needs. Peter didn't even get to drive from place to place. Nic remembered that Peter's partner was Ramsey Miller, an elderly officer with twenty-five years under his belt. Old Ramsey was highly territorial, and it wasn't surprising that he had neglected to hand the driving duties over to the new guy. Rumors were starting to fly around the precinct that Ramsey, although only fifty-five years of age, was beginning to go gray around the edges in the more senile of ways. Peter would not be daunted by an overprotective, obnoxious partner, however. In fact, he barely seemed to notice at all.  
  
"Mine, because that way, I get to drive," Ben replied. Before Nic could argue the point, Ben began walking purposefully toward and tugging at a key attached to a ring hooked to his belt. A thin wire would allow the key to be pulled away from its roost and used when needed. It would retract when released. Ben liked to drive. He didn't know why, but he always felt more at ease when he was driving. It gave him a sense of authority, like he could command the vehicle in the most dire of situations. As a passenger, it was often a lot more difficult to prevent a collision. Ben reached his squad car and unlocked it. Nic climbed in the passenger side, and Peter slid into the backseat as Ben situated himself behind the wheel. After all seatbelts were buckled and all mirrors where checked and adjusted, the engine roared to life with the turn of a key. In no time, the trio of officers was cruising along Portland Avenue, toward the State Tower.  
  
The squad car's radio continually crackled with the sound of static, and a strained female officer's voice pleading for assistance in the form of screaming. Shots could be heard from all sides of her, and Nic began to wonder if they were going to be driving right into a war zone. The car was silent; the will to banter having drained out its occupants. They each sat quietly, listening to the radio's desperate cry, contemplating what it truly was that they were getting themselves into.  
  
Ben pulled the car around a smooth curve in the road. Although it was much faster to cut through the park and basketball court, Ben opted to shoot for the more legal route, which would take more time. He silently apologized to the poor woman on the radio. It was a short drive that seemed to last forever before they finally began approaching the State Tower from the right side. The clock's massive face loomed in front of them, ominously lit up from the inside. It seemed to float in the dark night sky, and as the officer's watched it, rain began to pound down on the city. The water quickly hindered visibility, and Ben turned on the car's windshield wipers. It wasn't long after that they heard the first sounds of gunfire.  
  
Nic leaned forward in his chair, straining against his safety belt. "You hear that? Sounds like something hot," he said. "Shit. Hey Petey, I have a feeling you're going to getting some field research for that report of yours."  
  
"Wonderful. If it really is Mister Reaper who's causing all this ruckus," commented Ben, "then we are in a world of trouble."  
  
Peter remained silent, unaware that he was holding his breath in nervous anticipation. Sure, he was interested in the Reaper, but that didn't mean he wanted to get right up and look into Death's face. That was something he had been planning on avoiding for a very long time, at least until he was as old as Old Ramsey Miller. Guess he had no choice now. He released the breath.  
  
The front yard of the Tower finally came into view. It was, in terms of visual aids, utter chaos. Cars lay scattered around burning or burned. People were running in all directions, some police officers, some simple civilians, every one of them desperate to survive. Helicopters swooped about, hammered by the wind and rapidly falling rain. Shafts of harsh white light trembled an the gray stone wall of the Tower. The air was filled with thick black smoke and the sounds of whirling aircraft blades. Sirens and screams added to the cacophony.  
  
"My God." Ben peered over the top of the dashboard in complete awe. Someone ran by the car, saw the newly arrived vehicle and motioned frantically for them to make a hasty escape. The person, unrecognizable due to the torrents of blood running down his face, then sprinted away. Ben lost track of him in the mass of people on the sidewalk.  
  
Nic glanced upward through the windshield, trying to catch a glimpse of the cause of the catastrophe. All the chopper lights were focused on the top of the Tower, but whatever they were looking at remained unseen. Nic didn't like the prospect of an invisible killer. Someone slammed into the squad car on the right side and both Peter and Nic yelped in surprise. They turned around quickly and stared. The someone, bloodied and frantic, popped Peter's door open. Suddenly, Peter recognized him.  
  
"Ramsey," he exclaimed. He slid over in the seat, and the senior officer slipped inside, breathing hard and blinking blood away from his eyes.  
  
"The guy's crazy," Ramsey exploded as soon as he had pulled the door shut. "Seventeen people dead already. God only knows how many wounded we have. Now the little bastard's up in the goddamn clock tower sniping men before any of them can get close to the doors."  
  
"Is it who I suspect it is," Nic asked, turning around in his chair, being strangled by his seatbelt briefly before he angrily removed it.  
  
"If you suspect that it's the Reaper fellow, you know, the guy who killed Mason Braddock last year, then yes. That's exactly who it is. Was there any doubt in your mind," Ramsey replied. "We had him down on the ground for a while until he blew away two of the cruisers with a machine gun no one took notice too prior. Then he hightailed it to the roof with about six guys in tow. Once in the tower up there, he killed all his pursuers and threw their bodies over the side. Damn animal he is, kills people without a second thought. He's been up there ever since, sniping over the edge every-so- often. He hasn't been up for a while now, so we're just trying to regroup ourselves."  
  
Peter's eyes were wide. "How do we take him out?"  
  
"Hell if I know, kid," Ramsey said, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. Drops of blood from a deep cut above his eye stained his shirt, and Peter watched them in a state of shock. Ramsey didn't seemed to notice. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and allowing the ashes to fall to the floor.  
  
"Well, should we offer some assistance? We can't just sit here forever," Nic said slowly. It wasn't that he was particularly eager to jump out into the rain and be killed, but he would be damned if he were to sit in the stupid car and branded a coward by history.  
  
"What can we do," Ben asked. "Our handguns are useless when the man is all the way up there in the tower." The fact was perfectly true. A handgun only did any good when the opposition was down on personal, up-in-your-face level. The Reaper could easily cut them all down, because he had use of long-range weaponry. They had no way to retaliate.  
  
"What other choice do we have," Nic asked. "We're going to have to try to get hold of some rifles or something. Someone has to have brought one, or at least a shotgun."  
  
"I think Steve Park has both," Ramsey said. "Or at least he did. I'm pretty sure he was killed back when the Reaper guy was still running around on the ground. Poor Stevie, just had a baby girl, I hear. I'd hate to be the one to tell that young wife of his." The car fell silent again. Then Nic said,  
  
"Where's Stevie's squad car?"  
  
"Parked over near the side doors of the Tower. Why, do you think his gun are still in there or something?" It was possible. Steve had been one of the first officers on the scene, and he only been carrying his pistol. He had only spoken about other, heavier, packed heat.  
  
"I can pull this car away from the curb right now and drive over to Steve's car. We could pick up the rifle and creep around back of the tower to take the guy down from behind," Ben replied on Nic's behalf, the plan generously forming itself in his mind.  
  
"What, and just hope and pray that he doesn't happen to look up and see us running up to decapitate him," Ramsey asked bitterly.  
  
"Yeah," Peter said, breaking his seeming everlasting silence. He furrowed his brow, his young face suddenly becoming intensely worried. "What is he sees us? From what I've heard, he's not stupid. What happens when he gets wise to the plan?"  
  
"Then," Nic breathed. "We'll bleed the ground red."  
  
Peter fell silent. He didn't like that answer. He wasn't exactly looking forward to going on a suicide mission, but it also wasn't a good idea to leave the Reaper running about, shaking things up. He felt torn. He valued his life just as much as the next guy. Then again, he didn't have much of an option in this situation. It was succeed or die, and Peter wasn't sure particularly fond of the odds of success. What else was there to do? He shot a glance at Ramsey, who was busy pulling at a string on his sleeve, effectively unraveling a fair amount of the stitches. Everyone in the car was nervous, but with old Ramsey, it was more apparent. He was slouched down, and as Ben pulled the car away from the curb, he pulled out another cigarette. The cancer stick shook significantly, making tobacco leaves flutter out of the end.  
  
Ben maneuvered the vehicle up to Stevie Park's empty one on the left side. He pulled the car as close as he possibly could and still maintain the ability to open his door. That done, he exited the car and went straight into the passenger side of Stevie's car. The others remained still, hunkering down to be hidden by the shadows. The clock tower loomed above them, and if the killer was up there, a look over the edge would reveal their presence. Peter prayed silently for the safety of himself and his companions.  
  
A shotgun flew across the gap between the cars and landed, bouncing up and down slightly, on Ben's seat. Then came a Ruger assault rifle, followed by two Uzis in a black, plastic translucent case. Nic wondered where Steve had acquired those. Uzis were hardly standard police issue. They were used widely by local gangs because they packed a serious punch. If Stevie had had them, he was probably scared of something. Nic shook his head. He didn't blame the kid. Liberty City wasn't a friendly place, take the Reaper as example A.  
  
Ben jumped back into the car, shoving the guns over in the same movement. "I vote we go up through those doors right in front of us and then go up the tourist stairs. We can bust in on him from the back."  
  
"Scary," Nic commented. "Well, let's go." They got out of the car, Nic pausing to open the back door, as it didn't open from the inside. He and Ramsey carried the heavier weapons, leaving the Uzis to the younger officers. They crept to the door, keeping as low to the ground as was possible, moving stealthily to avoid being spotted. Ramsey reached the door first, and he pulled it open, allowing the other three officers to enter before him. Had he glanced up at the clock tower, which was to his right, he would have seen he shadowed figure leaning on the edge of one of the stone windows. The Reaper rested on his elbows, clasping his hands in front of him and smirking. Police officers. Such stupid creatures. Well, no matter. If they wanted to pick a fight, he wouldn't turn them down.  
  
Inside the doors, the officers stood at the bottom of a set of very long stairs that curved up the edge of the tower wall. Peter was instantly reminded of a time when his parents had dragged him out to San Diego to see the light houses. The Tower stairs looked like the inside of one of those tourist traps. The ominous staircase in front of him made him long for a time and place from long ago. The officers trudged up the stairs, keeping close to the wall. By the time they reached the top, old Ramsey was puffing for air. They stood motionless for several moments, waiting for him to catch his breath. A solid, plain wooden door stood at the end of a very short hall. Behind there, loomed death in all senses of the word.  
  
Now, when we bust in there, we'll have no idea where this guy will be," Ramsey said. "So, being extremely careful would be a very good idea. If I weren't a cop, I'd say we should just break down the goddamn thing a spray everything with bullets."  
  
"I doubt that would be considered a conventional police method," Ben said in a low voice. He shot a glance at the resident rookie. Peter was pressed against the wall at the tail end of group, his hand clutching the Uzi so tightly that Ben was convince that one of the other was going to shatter. "Okay Petey?" No I'm not okay, I'm scared! Peter wanted to shout it, as id Ben shouldn't have asked such an absurd question, but he didn't. Instead he nodded, his movement rapid and jerky. It was not a very convincing display of his confidence, nor his bravery, but Ben decided not to comment. There was a much greater issue to focus on now. He turned back to the door.  
  
"Everyone ready," Nic asked. He and Ramsey moved to the opposite side of the hallway to cover the entire room when the door was kicked down. Ben took this task upon himself, and the barrier slammed against the wall inside with a loud bang. All four men flinched. The room beyond them was flooded with the light from the helicopters, and the thumping of the blades could be heard easily. There were many places to hide in the tine area, as it was dominated by a huge brass bell, but the Reaper had opted to remain in plain sight. He was sitting against the left wall, casually loading the magazine of an Uzi. The empty gun lay in his lap. He picked it up and locked the now full magazine into it. Next to him was another Uzi, fully loaded and ready. He scooped it up and stood as the officers appeared on either side of the doorframe.  
  
"Freeze asshole," Ramsey called.  
  
The Reaper chuckled silently and raised both the machine guns. Pulling back the trigger, he showered the area with ammunition. The officers dove for cover, but not before Nic reeled back, red seeping through the front of his shirt. He sat down hard against the hallway wall, one hand jumping up to cover the wound. Ben looked at the fallen officer.  
  
"How bad is it, Nic," he asked, covering his head as bullets splintered the wood of the doorframe, sending them flying in all different directions. Abruptly, the gunfire ceased, and silence fell over the clock tower.  
  
"Aortal blood, I fear," Nic said breathlessly. "Seems very mortal, you know, kind of fatal. I only wish I could tell my wife goodbye before I die. That would be nice, but these things happen, I suppose."  
  
Ben scrambled across the hall and sat down next to Nic, his back against the wall. He was aware of the clattering of the Uzi magazines as the Reaper released them and sent them to the floor. He hoped it would take at least some time for him to reload them. Of course, that was absurd. It would be possible to leap back in front of the doorframe and shoot the bastard before he was able to bring those deadly weapon up again. That would be the smart thing to do, but something about the blood blossoming on Nic's crisp, dark blue shirt forced him to stay. It almost seemed disrespectful to leave him in such a critical moment in his life. So Ben stayed where he was, unsure of what to do.  
  
"Why are you talking like that, Nic? You'd be surprised at all the fancy shit they've got in hospitals nowadays. They can save you; I'll bet money on it," he said. It sounded like a plea, a desperate comment as if to say "Please don't give up."  
  
Nic gave off a weak laugh, blood bubbles burbling in the back of his throat and from the hole in his chest. "Yeah, all right Benny. I'll let you believe that if you want, but me, I'm more of a realist." He paused, taking a short breath of air, trying to summon the strength to continue speaking. "I know how bad it is," he whispered hoarsely. "I give myself ten minutes tops. I can feel the fires of Hell already."  
  
The sound of the Reaper competently replacing the magazines in his Uzis echoed throughout the hallway. Ben swallowed hard. Please God. Help me.  
  
Suddenly, something about what Nic had said struck him. What had Nic meant by saying that he could "feel the fires of Hell already"? Was he being modest, or had he done something horrible in his life, something Hell worthy, that he was ashamed of? Ben shook the thoughts out of his head. There wasn't enough time to think about that now. The Reaper was waiting for them.  
  
Peter and Ramsey were pressed against the opposite wall, glancing from Nic to the room where the bell was anxiously. Ben got to his feet, picking up Nic's assault rifle. He nodded; it was now or never. Old Ramsey nodded back, using his sleeve to wipe away the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. Ben tossed Peter the other Uzi, and Peter caught it, thinking bitterly to himself about being armed just like the killer in the next room. He felt uneasy having even the slightest similarity between them. It almost felt unfair.  
  
Ramsey went first, moving in front of the door with speed that neither of the other officers had know he was capable of. The Reaper was standing in front of the bell looking bored. His arms hung at his sides, but each of his hands was clutching an Uzi still. Ramsey fired the shotgun he had gotten from Stevie's car without hesitation and --- was greeted with a hollow click as metal met metal without fanfare. Ramsey's stomach dropped with the realization that the heavy 12-guage wasn't loaded. Damn it, what kind of officer was Stephen Park to have left his shotgun unloaded? Did he really have that much faith in his Glock? Amazing, Ramsey mused. Kids these days are fucking amazing. He looked up.  
  
The Reaper was looking at him through impossibly dark eyes, his countenance almost sympathetic. Almost. His eyes, those black eyes, betrayed too much sadism for his expression to be taken to heart. Ramsey dropped the shotgun. The Reaper raised one of the Uzis, and watched out of the corner of his eyes as Ben tried to get in front of the elderly cop before the inevitable happened. Ramsey moved to one side, trying to free his Glock from its holster as Ben pushed him, but it was too damn late. The Reaper squeezed the trigger back, the bullets reporting loudly in the small room.  
  
Ramsey clutched his right shoulder, yelping as pain speared him. He stumbled backwards. Suddenly, his body jerked back, and he fell against the wall next to the doorframe. He was wracked with what looked like a seizure as the Reaper's gun spit ammunition across the short distance. Ben dove for cover, cursing his slowness to act, leaving Peter, who stood just outside the room, to witness his partner's gruesome murder. The gunshots filled the rookie's ears, and he resisted the urge to cover them and cower in a corner. He wanted nothing more than to be far away. Dying wasn't penciled into his schedule.  
  
The Uzi stopped firing. Ramsey's shredded body slid down the partition, released from its deadly strings, leaving a thick, red trail on the gray wall. Peter's eyes filled with the scene, and he stood there in dumb fascination. This kind of horror was only supposed to happen in movies and books. It wasn't real. It wasn't supposed to be able to reach out and touch people. Yet, there it was. The Reaper watched the officer slump to the floor, very much dead.  
  
Ben got back on his feet and began firing the assault rifle, losing control of it on the kickback for a moment. It took all his strength to hold the enormous gun stable, and the rapid firing made his arms numb. Still, he continued to hold the trigger back, fueled by Ramsey's appalling execution and the memory that Nic lay dying in the hallway behind him. Ben was sickened and angry. He wanted the Reaper to die, and he wanted to be the one to kill him. He realized such a desire should not be one a police officer should have, but at this point in his life, he didn't care.  
  
The Reaper dove out of the way, leaping around to be covered by the bell. Ben's bullets ricocheted off the metal, echoing loudly and extract a low shudder of complaint from the bell. Ben stopped shooting, realizing that he couldn't hit the man from his current position. He thanked God silently that his gun had worked, unlike Ramsey's. He thanked Stevie Park too. As he moved around the bell to fire at the killer again, he heard another magazine drop and a new one click into the gun in replacement. Damn, how much ammunition did this guy have, anyway? The sound of ripping Velcro told the story that the Reaper was wearing a bulletproof vest. Great. Just great.  
  
Ben made it around the bell -- and the Reaper was gone.  
  
"Ben! Look out," came Peter's desperate warning. A few Uzi bullets were shot off, and by the way the sound abruptly cut off, Ben could tell Peter had tried to use the weapons he had been entrusted with, but he had not been counting on the kickback. Peter lost control of the gun, and he let go of it in a panic. It clattered loudly across the floor. Ben whirled around came face to face with the Reaper. Without a moment's hesitation, Ramsey's murderer raised one Uzi and fired. A surprised noise escaped Ben's lips as his chest exploded. Blood splattered the bell behind him violent force, and it speckled the face of the killer. Holding the gun's barrel directly against the fabric of Ben's shirt, the Reaper fired again. The assault rifle fell out of the dead officer's grasp. Ben crumpled to the floor, the bell ringing softly as his body bumped it. [For all of you out there who have read For Whom the Bell Tolls, well, the bell tolls for thee, along with Benjamin Henry.] The killer turned toward Peter, mopping dead mans' blood from his face as he did so. He stood there examining the rookie, red-handed, his clothes dripping with the crimson substance of the murder of twenty people.  
  
Peter considered using the Uzi again, but no. He couldn't control it. The Reaper was much more efficient. He'd have him on the floor dead in less than the time it takes to sneeze. Peter fought back the burning urge to vomit. His mind raced with hopeless options until it finally settled on one that seemed like it could work, not likely, but maybe. The rookie turned and ran.  
  
The Reaper stood and looked after him. After a moment, he rolled his eyes and sighed. He turned around and walked across the open section in the bell tower, facing the front lawn. He leapt from the window and landed hard on the roof below, stumbling a few steps before regaining his balance. Rain poured down on him, and within seconds, he was completely soaked. Streams of bloody water ran away from him, rushing down the slanted roof. He stopped and spread his arms, enjoying nature's fury, practically daring the officers above and below to shoot him. Then he began running long the roof with impeccable balance and agility despite the slippery conditions.  
  
A few gunmen rose to the killer's challenge, but no bullets managed to sting him. Or if they had, he gave no indication of it. He kept running until he reached the edge of the roof. He jumped down, landing on the metal fire escape staircase attached to the side of the building. The impact was harder than he had anticipated, and he lost his footing and slipped down the rest of the stairs. He quickly recovered and moved, limping a little, to the edge of the tower, out of sight of anyone who wasn't standing directly in front or behind him. He waited for the rookie to run by.  
  
Peter had run down the curved staircase inside the clock tower, tripping quite a few times in the process. He stumbled along, out the front door, unaware that the Reaper was lying in wait. He bolted toward a group of officers on his right. Just as he cleared the edge of the tower, a hand shot out and latched to the collar of his shirt. He was pulled into the alleyway between the tower and the courthouse next door. He fell flat on his back, caught completely off guard. He regained his sense of origin and looked up, straight into the face of Death.  
  
The Reaper let go of Peter's shirt, smiled a little and waved mockingly. Peter was astounded. How had the man beat him down here from the top of the tower? This guy was beginning to seem like more than just a gang-running, professional killer. He was more of a supernatural being now. Peter raised his hands to his face, choking back a sob as tears escaped him. Gee, he had never imagined dying like this. The last thing young Peter Warrington III heard the rattle of an Uzi, like his very own death rattle. He died an expert on the Reaper, just has he wanted to be. He died crying for himself and for his fallen comrades. The rookie lay slain in an alleyway; old Ramsey Miller sat dead against the wall ten stories above him; Nicholas Komolo was breathing his last, praying to God; and Benjamin Henry was done, having run his own bell; and the silent killer escaped into the night, leaving nothing behind except twenty-one corpses and hundreds of bullet casings.  
  
*********************************** 


End file.
